Chapter III: The Altar Painting (2)

It was in the summer of the year 1876 when, one Sunday, she went on an excursion to St. Germain with the friend whom she was making happy by her affection. These summer Sunday excursions to the charming places near the city are the object of longing to all Parisian work-women, who go fairly crazy with joy when they have the prospect of skipping about on the grass during a whole warm, sunny day, gathering flowers, catching butterflies, and singing sentimental songs in the arbor of a country tavern over a bottle of wine. Marie had been gay to the verge of recklessness all day long, had laughed and chattered and sung till she was hoarse and thirsty; in the evening she found herself, with her friend, in a restaurant of St. Germain; they were alone in the tavern, and emptied one glass after another of the cheap wine of the neighborhood. The friend, who had taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves to cool himself, was tattooed on the arm like most Paris workmen. There, in various colors, was a flaming heart, two hearts transfixed by a huge arrow as if on a spit, and several names, dates, and inscriptions, such as “Ever Thine!” or “Faithful unto Death!” Marie saw these signs and figures, and a reckless thought darted through her mind. “Tattoo my arm, too!” she cried, and the workman, bursting into a loud laugh, asked what he should tattoo. “First, my name; so that I can try whether it hurts.”

No sooner said than done. Some indigo was quickly obtained, Marie had a needle, and the workman went to work at once. At every prick Marie uttered a faint cry and shrank away a little, but in the pauses she laughed and drank, and the workman did not stop until in large, distinct letters appeared the name: “Marie Balok.”

“Shall I tattoo anything else?”

“Yes, the date.”

Five minutes after the date, “1876,” was inscribed beneath the name. While the workman was rubbing indigo into the little wounds, from each of which a tiny drop of blood was oozing, the landlord brought in a fresh bottle of wine, and Marie soothed the slight pain of the operation with another drink. The man eyed his work approvingly, and then asked:

“Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, my dear fellow.”

“Don’t you want to add something to it? A name and a date—that’s silly. We’ll make it more amusing. Shall I draw an emblem?”

“No.”

“Or a motto?”

“Stop, you’re right. A motto—that’s it. But what shall it be? Let me think.”

The workman proposed some of the usual amorous phrases, but Marie would not accept them. The usual relapse had followed the exuberant mirthfulness of the day, and she now sank into a melancholy reverie. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she looked back upon her past and found it miserable beyond measure. A wicked fairy seemed to have sat beside her cradle. Every phase of her existence appeared to be under the influence of a curse. Born in poverty, orphaned, growing up in penury, living in shame, vegetating without a future, without a purpose, without pleasure,—this was her past, her present, her future destiny, and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears, as she examined this dark, hideous picture, destitute of light and beauty. And when her friend roused her from her sorrowful reverie with the exclamation: “Then find a motto yourself, if you don’t like mine!” She condensed the substance of her life, as it presented itself to her mental vision, into a phrase which, in this application, lost its triviality, and charged itself with profound desolation as if with electricity, as with a sorrowful smile she said to the workman: “Tattoo Pas de chance! That is the real motto of my life.”

No chance! It was not only the motto of her life, it was also a prophecy. Poor Marie was to have no happiness to the end. Barely seventeen, in the dawn of her young life, only a few months after she had had the sorrowful, resigned motto inscribed upon her arm, she died in a hospital bed. This was the story of beautiful Marie, as, standing beside her lifeless body, I imagined it. Was it really her history? I cannot warrant it, but it is probable. But it is certain that the lovely young girl lay dead before me on the table, and that on the pearly skin of her plump, nobly-moulded arm, as if written in blue, phosphorescent characters by the finger of a malicious demon, were the words: “Pas de chance!”

The dissection showed that Marie had suffered from a defect in the valvular action of the heart. This explained her sudden death in a moment of passionate excitement. I waited until all was over, the other physicians had left the room, and old Jean came forward with his big needle and coarse woolen thread to attend to the body. Now I closed the beautiful Marie’s open eyes, still staring at me with a strange, vacant glance, and slowly withdrew. As I closed the heavy iron door of the dissecting room behind me, it seemed as if, from the last table at the end of the hall, a faint, ghostly voice whispered in my ears: “Pas de chance!”

HOW THE FOX HUNTER FARED IN ENGLAND.

Baron K. is one of the pleasantest young fellows I ever met. In fact, he possesses the rarest combination of all the qualities which cannot fail to make a man the favorite of every circle. He captivates women by his twenty-five years, a handsome, slender figure, expressive dark eyes, and a coquettish little moustache; men he wins by the chivalrous frankness of his nature, and his heartfelt and therefore contagious cheerfulness. He speaks several languages with great fluency, is an admirable conversationalist, who would appear to advantage in any Parisian drawing-room; he dances admirably, sings well in a fine baritone voice, plays excellently on the piano, and does not easily find a rival as a horseman, fencer or shot. Aristocratic birth and a fortune which, according to Continental ideas, is considerable, placed him from early youth in a position which enabled him to develop his social talents and put his light into a suitable candlestick.

I made his acquaintance in London, in the spring of the year 1874. He had apparently given himself up completely to the swelling flood-tide of the “season,” and let it bear him unresistingly away. His days and nights were spent at the clubs, in Hyde Park, at dinners, theaters, and evening parties. He was rarely in any costume except a dress suit and a white cravat, and if any one wished to be sure of finding him in his elegant lodgings in Bruton street, he was obliged to go there between five and eleven o’clock in the morning and feel no hesitation about rousing him from his sleep. An introduction from his ambassador, Count B., secured him admittance to the best circles, and there were few of the most prominent families where he could not be found at least once a fortnight, singing Hungarian folk songs, playing the czardas, and awakening universal enthusiasm. The “nice Hungarian” often formed the subject of very animated conversations between young and older ladies, and once, when contrary to English custom, he appeared in the drawing-room of Alderman Sir Frederick Fr. in the rich, gold-embroidered uniform of a Honved Hussar lieutenant, he created the greatest sensation, and even a young Tamil prince who was present, attired in a gay silk caftan, with a girdle of gold brocade and a cachemire shawl turban, in which blazed a magnificent ruby, could not divert the attention of the company from our baron. Though the favorite of so many circles, received everywhere with open arms, and loaded with half a dozen invitations for every evening, Baron K. showed a very marked preference for the home of Mr. George F.

The master of the house, a member of Parliament for one of the central counties of England, is one of the most eminent sportsmen in the country; he has broken all his limbs, and once very nearly his neck, in fox-hunting, won the Queen’s cup at Wimbledon, was one of the champions of his county versus the neighboring one, at cricket, fifteen years ago, and if he did not conquer, it was only because he had the misfortune of being pitted against the champion of the United Kingdom; but to succumb with honor to such an antagonist is more glorious than to conquer a Mr. Nobody. Mr. F.’s library contains all the numbers of the Field bound in handsome volumes; he has a copy of the first edition of Isaak Walton’s superb book on angling, obtained at an auction of Christie, Mason & Co.’s for 115 guineas, and in his private reception room, besides a fine collection of dog and horse whips and pretty models of saddles of every form, the eyes are specially attracted by a large number of fox brushes tastefully arranged, the most precious trophies of as many hunting seasons, in which he took part as one of the most esteemed sportsmen.

It is apparent that Mr. George F. is a sufficiently interesting person for it to be perfectly natural that Baron K. should prefer him to many others, but I do not believe that it was the master of the house who attracted our friend so often to the elegant residence on Albion street. Mr. F. has a daughter, a charming creature of nineteen, slender and pliant as a reed, with the roseate complexion which Nature bestows on English women in their cradles as an enviable gift and a national inheritance, and sparkling blue eyes, into which one cannot look without instantly feeling the most intense poetic sentiments. There are satisfactory reasons for the assertion that Miss Bridget, not her papa, was the great magnet of the F. household for our friend. The relation between Baron K. and the F. family soon became one of great intimacy. The young Hungarian and the beautiful Bridget F. rode together alone in Hyde Park; in Drury Lane; and at Her Majesty’s Theater they were always in the same box; in going to Ascot Baron K. did not fail to accompany the F. family; in short, no one could doubt that their intercourse meant something more than the mere acquaintanceship of fashionable society. In fact, Baron K. had already made Bridget a formal declaration of love; she had asked him, in the usual way, to speak to mamma, at the same time assuring him, with a lovely blush, that she would not fail to support his wishes, and papa had already taken one step: he had closely questioned certain persons, to whom Baron K. introduced him, about his family and his position at home. Fortune played no part in the affair, for Miss Bridget, according to the statements of well-informed people, was “worth 18,000 a year”—ten times as much as the baron possessed.

The happy suitor now withdrew more and more from general society, in order to devote himself exclusively to Bridget, he could already venture to say his Bridget. He spent all his evenings with her, and went to entertainments only when he knew that she would be present also.

One evening, as had so often happened of late, he was taking tea with the F. family. No one was in the drawing-room except the father, mother, and daughter, and our friend. The conversation turned upon sporting matters, and Mr. F. asked if there was any fox-hunting in Hungary.

“I should think so!” exclaimed Baron K. eagerly. “Foxes are as numerous in some parts of our country as hares are here! I myself shot five specimens of Mr. Charley in a single day.”

“What?” cried Mr. and Mrs. F. in the same breath, the former starting from his rocking chair, the latter dropping her tea-cup, while Bridget could not repress a low cry of terror.

Baron K. was silenced by bewilderment, and a brief, painful pause followed. He could not imagine what there had been in his words to produce so startling an effect upon his hearers, and hit upon the luckless idea that they perhaps suspected him of exaggeration. So, after a few minutes, he added somewhat timidly: “You may believe me, I have shot five foxes in a day and, in a battue, even more!”

“Oh!” said Mr. F, and made no farther comment. Bridget cast imploring glances at the speaker, which caused him still greater embarrassment, because he did not understand in the least, and Mrs. F. rang for the servant to remove the fragments of the cup. Poor Baron K. did not know what to think. He ventured to ask Mrs. F. what had startled her so, but received only the reply, accompanied by an icy glance. “Oh, nothing, a little nervousness, but it’s over now.” Mr. F. suddenly remembered that he must read the long parliamentary report which had been sent to him that day, and even Bridget remarked that she had a headache. It was impossible not to understand. So Baron K. bade them good evening, and retired, but was not a little perplexed when he saw that Mr. F. did not shake hands with him, and the lady of the house did not, as usual, invite him to come again soon.

The young man set out on his walk home with a heavy heart and a whirling brain. He was in no mood to seek other society, though it was only eleven o’clock. So he strolled about the park for an hour, pondering with the utmost earnestness, with all his penetration, over the incidents of the evening, yet without being able to obtain the least clue to the mystery. It was barely midnight when he sought his couch, but he tossed about in his spacious bed, which was almost as large as a bedroom of moderate size on the Continent, until morning dawned, without finding sleep.

The next day he reached a decision. He would go to Mr. F. and ask openly, frankly, and without circumlocution, for an explanation of the scene of the previous evening. He waited in feverish impatience until one o’clock, and the hour had scarcely struck when, though not without hesitation, he let the “knocker” fall on the metal plate of the well-known door in Albion street. The footman opened it. His face wore a peculiar expression as he said that—no one was at home. “Not Mrs. F.?” “No one.” “Nor Miss F.?” “No one, sir. I’ve already said so twice.” “And when will they return?” “Oh, that’s hard to tell. Not to-day, nor to-morrow. Who knows.”

Baron K. cast a contemptuous glance at the lackey, and went away. But he could not help feeling the bang with which the footman closed the door as an insult. What was to be done now? He must have a clear understanding at any cost. Entering a stationer’s shop at the corner of Oxford street and Park lane, he wrote a few hasty lines to Mr. F. The London mail is prompt and punctual. An hour and a half after, the postman’s familiar double knock echoed on Baron K.’s door; the housekeeper brought in a letter, which he snatched from her hand in the utmost excitement, only to drop it the next moment, fairly stupefied. It was his own note, on whose back Mr. F. himself had written: “Not accepted. Return to Baron K.”

An hour after the poor young fellow was seated in the elegant reading room of the Army and Navy Club, into which a friend had introduced him as a guest for several weeks; he held in his hand the last number of the Echo, but, instead of reading, he was gazing into vacancy. His frank countenance showed mental agitation which even a dull eye could not fail to notice. At this hour he was almost alone in the spacious apartments of the aristocratic club, and, consequently, almost unobserved. But he did not remain solitary long. One of his most intimate friends, Captain W., entered, looked around in search of acquaintances, and as soon as he saw Baron K. came up to him, shook hands, and exclaimed loudly: “What brings you here at so unusual an hour, old fellow?” But, glancing keenly at him, he instantly added in an altered tone: “How you look! Are you ill? Is anything wrong?”

The other burst into a peal of angry laughter as he replied: “Not ill, but crazy. If, perhaps, I am not already, I soon shall be! But Heaven sends you to me; perhaps you can give me some explanation. Listen. Yesterday evening I was at Mr. F.’s.”

“I know,” interrupted the captain, with a significant smile.

“Well, I was at Mr. F.’s. We were talking together in the pleasantest manner about various matters; I told him that, in Hungary, I had shot five foxes and even more in a single day—”

“What?” exclaimed the captain, sharply. “You mean killed!”

“Why yes, killed, shot dead.”

“Oh! I see,” answered the captain, in a voice whose chill fairly froze the marrow in K.’s bones, and, without another syllable, he turned on his heel, went to the next table, took up a magazine, and walked slowly to an armchair.

K. looked after him a moment with dilated eyes and open mouth, then, reaching his side at a single bound, he grasped his shoulder with a trembling hand and fairly roared into, his ears:

“You too! This is an actual conspiracy! But you must give me an explanation, you shall not escape.”

The captain looked at the excited young man before him with the cold apathy of the Englishman, shrugged his shoulders, and answered very calmly:

“I don’t wish to have anything to do with you, sir.”

The two or three men who were in the room began to turn their heads toward the pair and, when K. continued to demand explanations from Captain W. in vehement tones, the latter quietly left the apartment, while the poor baron remained a prey to the most conflicting emotions. He let himself drop into an armchair, buried his face in his hands, and thought of nothing at all. But he was not to retain this position long undisturbed. Scarcely ten minutes had passed ere a servant entered, stopped before K., and, with a courteous bow, offered him a note on a silver tray.

Baron K. opened it; it contained only the following words, very hurriedly written:

“Upon an oral report made by Captain W., the secretary of the Army and Navy Club begs to inform Baron K. that he shall not be considered any longer the guest of our club.”

Baron K. did not utter a word, but convulsively crushed the note, thrust it into his pocket and left the room.

He went directly to the embassy, where he found a young friend, whom he entreated to aid him in an affair of honor. But the other, shrugging his shoulders, said that he could not serve if the person to be challenged was an Englishman. Besides, he must be on his guard, for the authorities here understood no jesting in these matters.

Baron K. went out with his wrath unappeased; he had only one thought—vengeance. Captain W. was an officer and a member of the Horse Guards, he could not avoid giving him satisfaction. Without troubling himself any farther about seconds, he went home and wrote a letter, in which he challenged him to meet him with arms in his hands unless he desired to be declared a miserable coward and chastised in the public streets. The letter was posted, and Baron K. felt somewhat calmer. He spent this evening at home, for he had a secret hope that Captain W. would answer at once. But half-past nine o’clock came, the last double knocks echoed and died away in the street, but this time none sounded at his door. The next morning also the expected reply did not arrive, but, late in the afternoon, he received an official document, summoning him to appear the next morning at eleven o’clock before the Westminster Police Court, on pain of legal penalties, etc., etc.

Baron K. went from one state of astonishment to another; he no longer knew what to think of himself, the English, the world, and began to feel really ill. Under such circumstances the hours passed slowly enough, he naturally felt no inclination for society, and it seemed as if, in the last two days, he had lived ten years, when, punctually at eleven o’clock the next morning, he appeared before the alderman who acted as judge in the Westminster Police Court. He had not long to wait. First a cabman was condemned to pay four shillings and sixpence because he had charged a passenger three pence too much, then Baron K. heard his own name called. Advancing to the judge, he asked what was wanted. The judge showed him the letter which he had written to Captain W. and asked if he knew the epistle. K assented. Did he acknowledge that he was its author? Another affirmative answer. Was it a jest, or had he been serious in the challenge and threats which the letter contained? Very serious, K. answered.

The judge then raised his voice, saying impressively:

“I ought to condemn you, for disturbance of the peace and dangerous threats, to three months imprisonment with hard labor, but in consideration of the fact that you are a young, ignorant, foolish foreigner, unfamiliar with the laws of the country, you need only pay a fine of fifty pounds sterling. You must, however, find two persons who will give bail that you will keep the peace for six months, and you must also keep in mind that if you utter even the slightest threat you will be sentenced to hard labor!”

A few days after the incidents related, I chanced to meet Baron K. in the Zoological Gardens, where, with a friend—an author who had traveled extensively and possessed much experience of the world—I was inspecting some animals which had just arrived. I thought that K. was greatly altered and told him so. He laughed bitterly, and answered:

“Pray don’t ask me to tell you the reason, otherwise the same thing might happen which has already befallen me twice.”

But as I urged him, he at last resolved to gratify my wishes. When I had heard the story as I have just related it, I stood still and stared at him in astonishment, as much bewildered as Baron K. himself. The English author who was in our company smiled in amusement and, after looking at the luckless young fellow a while, he said:

“Then you do not know that to shoot a fox, or to kill it in any way except with a pack of hounds, horses, etc., is a far baser crime, in the eyes of the majority of my countrymen, than to steal a purse? You do not know that there is scarcely a gentleman in England who would give his hand to a man who had killed a fox with a bullet?”

We certainly had not known it, but it was true. Baron K. was now a wiser, but a sadder man. He left England soon after, and I shall not be surprised to hear that he does not express the kindest opinions of the island kingdom and its inhabitants.

WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY.

The windows of the restaurant were open, and the cool, fragrant air of the spring night was struggling with the smoke-laden atmosphere of the room. A glance out of doors showed the azure sky and the brilliant full moon, whose glimmering bluish rays shone through the young leafage of the blossoming trees, which swayed gently to and fro before the windows in the light breeze. But nothing was more remote from the minds of our circle, which met every evening at a certain table for social intercourse, than poetical ideas. The club, of which I was one, consisted principally of worthy citizens, who had a far greater liking for bright gaslight than for dim moonlight, and who appreciated the charms of a good supper much more than the spell of the loveliest spring night. The topic of our conversation was prosaic town gossip, which, as usual, gradually merged into foolish talk about politics or discussions concerning the Government, the theater, high taxes, and similar subjects. By a connection of ideas which I do not now recall, the question had arisen whether it was credible that a person’s hair could suddenly turn gray from violent mental excitement. Part of the company received the anecdotes current about such cases with slight doubts, while others most pitilessly derided persons who were simple enough to believe such nursery tales.

Just as the conversation became most animated, a man of unusual height and herculean frame, whom he had not previously noticed, rose from a side table and approached us. His intelligent features, which bore the stamp of resolution, seemed spiritualized by the large, kindly blue eyes. But the most striking peculiarity in his appearance was the snow white hair and the gray beard framing his face, which, at the utmost, indicated an age of only thirty-five years.

“Pardon me if I enter into your conversation,” he said, bowing courteously. “You are speaking of a subject which greatly interests me. I myself am a living proof that terrible mental agitation really does exert the physical influence which you all doubt.”

His words awakened the utmost interest. We made room for him at our table, and, after he had taken his seat, unanimously urged him to tell us what had caused the whiteness of his hair.

The stranger feigned no undue modesty, but yielded to our entreaties and related the following story:

“If you have ever paid any attention to American affairs, the name of Auburn cannot be unfamiliar; it has about the same significance in the United States as Spielberg has in Austria. You must not imagine Auburn as an immense gloomy prison, a single large building, but rather a whole colony of criminals, a metropolis of the miserable outcasts of society. Inclosed by enormous walls, which rise menacingly to a considerable height above the plain, are a great number of single structures, houses which contain the cells of the prisoners, the residences of the wardens, barracks, hospitals, and workshops, all desolate and dreary, with here and there a bit of turf, a row of trees, a bed of flowers, like an innocent memory of childhood among the evil thoughts of a criminal.

“Circumstances which I will not weary you by recounting had led me, after completing my education in my native city, Hamburg, to America, and after a brief time in New York I found myself prison surgeon in Auburn, which, as perhaps you know, is in the State of New York.

“I had charge of a part of the prison which contained the worst criminals, men, or, rather, human hyenas, to whom blood had ceased to be a very special liquid, as Mephistopheles terms it. Two, who were condemned to lifelong imprisonment in the institution, and were distinguished among the others by great bodily strength, craftiness, and intelligence, had, in consequence of repeated bold and cunning attempts to escape, been placed under more rigid oversight than the rest. I had incurred their special hate because I had once caused the discovery of several iron tools, which—heaven knows how obtained—they had concealed under their clothing, and on another occasion discovered that they were shamming when, on the plea of illness, they desired to be placed in the hospital, probably because they hoped to find the conditions there more favorable for their plans of escape. The scoundrels were separated and heavily chained, but nevertheless one morning one and, a few days later, the other vanished, chains and all, without leaving a trace. About a fortnight afterward I went to Cayuga Bridge on some private business.

“It was noon when I reached the end of my ride, and I gazed with delight at the sunlit landscape before my eyes. Cayuga Lake, one of those which, with Lake Erie, form the network of inland lakes, lay before me in its peculiar loveliness. Between rugged, rocky shores, confronting each other like sullen foes, the long, narrow sheet of silver extended its clear surface as if striving to reconcile the two enemies who had stared defiantly at each other for centuries. Across the lake, which is about forty miles long, and, at this point, a mile wide, the railway trains run on an immense wooden bridge, a marvel of American enterprise, which has a station at Cayuga Bridge, an insignificant village.

“My business was soon completed, and toward evening I set out on my way home. Are you familiar with the pleasure of a ride on a summer evening? Cayuga Bridge is surrounded by extensive oak forests, through which I had to ride a considerable distance. The huge, lofty trunks cast long shadows and the tops rustled so softly that one rather felt than heard them. As I passed beneath these woodland giants, sweet memories of my far-off home stole into my heart. Absorbed in thought, I loosened the bridle of my horse, which trotted slowly forward. I admired the bewitching blending of colors produced by the rays of the setting sun, as they shone through the dense, dark green foliage and seemed to kindle the edges of the leaves. Suddenly I was roused from my dreams by a rustling in the underbrush on both sides of the road. I seized my pistol and turned quickly, but at the same moment received a terrible blow, which deprived me of my senses. True, I opened my eyes once more and fancied I saw indistinctly, as if in a dream, one of the escaped criminals bending over me, then darkness shrouded my mind.

“It must have been late at night when consciousness returned. I opened my eyes and saw above me in the deep blue sky a radiant full moon. A dull, heavy sensation in the back of my head made me try to put my hand on the aching spot, but I discovered that I was bound hand and foot. Gradually I collected my thoughts, remembered the attack by highwaymen, and a terrible foreboding, which made my heart stop beating, darted through my brain. I felt that I was laid across two sharp parallel projections, which pressed against me most painfully and, listening intently, I heard, far below me, a faint splashing noise. There was no doubt—I was lying across the rails of the Cayuga Bridge, bound, unable to move, with the terribly certain prospect of being cut into three pieces by the next train.

“I almost lost consciousness again. But I soon recovered my composure. Then I tugged desperately at my bonds till they almost cut my muscles, shrieked, and at last wept like a child. I tried to roll myself into a different position, and remembered that an incautious movement would hurl me into the silent waves of the Cayuga—bound hand and foot, motionless as a stone.

“I shuddered and lay still. But not long. The light of the large, to me, fearfully brilliant moon, the plashing of the water below, the wind blowing softly, then the deathlike silence again, rarely interrupted even by the distant note of a bird—all became unendurable and inspired me with unspeakable terror. And the rails! The rails! My senses tortured me. I could not escape them. The wooden beams of the bridge trembled almost imperceptibly from the washing of the water. I imagined I felt the approach of the train and my hair bristled; the wind sighed a little louder, I fancied I heard the dull panting of the engine and my heart stood still, only to throb the next instant with such dreadful speed that the pulsations were almost audible.

“There are some things, gentlemen, which are totally incomprehensible to me; one of them is how I survived that night. One thought stood distinctly before my mind. I must endeavor to work myself into another position—if possible, get into the space between the rails—if I was not, perhaps the next moment, to become the victim of the most agonizing death.

“And I succeeded! I strained every muscle, every sinew to the point of breaking. I writhed, I twisted, I panted, my head seemed bursting, and, after tremendous exertion, which appeared to me to last an eternity, though perhaps it was only moments, I found myself in the hollow between the rails.

“Was I safe? I had not time to consider or rejoice in my new hope, for all my vital powers were concentrated in the single sense of hearing. In the far distance I distinguished, at first vaguely, then more and more distinctly, the regular, monotonous, dull noise which is produced by the engine of a moving locomotive. The awful silence of the night merged minute by minute into the still more awful, confused jarring sounds, the rattling and groaning, rumbling and panting of a locomotive, which was rushing forward at the mad speed of American trains. A thousand feet more, five hundred—all the terrors of the infernal regions assailed me, but not a muscle moved; I lay as if turned to stone. I tried to shriek, but did not even hear my own voice; how should it reach those on the train?

“Now, for an infinitely brief space of time, I fancied that I saw a bright light, a blast of hot air fanned me, then suddenly darkness shrouded me, I heard a thundering roar as though the very heavens were falling.

“Close, very close, barely an inch above, the monster dashed over me—I was safe. Still half unconscious, I heard a deafening rumbling and clattering, and saw shadowy masses flit by; there was another moment of mortal dread—the hook of a chain which hung lower than the rest caught me, dragged me along a few feet and finally tore a large piece from the breast of my coat, releasing me—then every object danced around me, the moon, the bridge, and the high bank whirled in a giddy maze above and below me, and my senses failed.

“When I regained my consciousness I found myself in my bed, with familiar faces around me. To make the story short, I had been picked up the morning after that terrible night by a signal man, recognized, and taken to Auburn. A violent fever kept me for a fortnight within the shadow of death, but my strong constitution conquered. When, after my recovery, I looked in the glass for the first time, I saw what traces those moments had left upon me.”

The physician paused. His pallid face, the expression of horror in his eyes, the perspiration which stood in large drops upon his brow, showed how vivid must be his remembrances of the scene, and how greatly the narration had exhausted him.

Gradually the breathless anxiety with which we had listened to the story related with such graphic power passed away, and cheerfulness returned.

Then we paced to and fro for a long time in the moonlight, in the garden behind the tavern, listening to the doctor’s tales of less harrowing experiences in the young land of liberty, wonders, and adventure.